The Usual Suspects
by pheonix1
Summary: With the 'end' of Jack Sparrow, the captain of the Flying Dutchman has little to go on in finding his pilfered heart except for a description of the last man holding the box-James Norrington.  -One-Shot. For now.


notes: a horizontal rule represents a changing of POV, location, or time frame. it should be pretty obvious as to which. _italics indicate thought_.

Prologue

Lord Cutler Beckett was a weasley little bastard of a man.

Norrington reflected grimly from the deck of the _Fortuna_, a large, sluggish cargo vessel that had once been of Spanish origin-though obviously refitted by British hands. The salted wind that toyed with his newly-shorn hair had once enerverated him, but now it only brought memories of his lost crew and ship, along with thoughts on his current, unsavory situation.

The Admiralty had deemed him worthy enough for replacement of the _Interceptor_, and the _Daedalus_ had been a fine balance between might and speed, with neither overtaking the other. A stout ship fresh from the line -with no hope of catching Sparrow, but with enough berth to lie in wait for weeks-setting a trap for their unlikely prey.

Unfortunately, the _Daedalus_ would never have the chance to spring said trap. It would sink on it's maiden voyage, taking all hands to the depths, save one.

That lone man glared at the horizon as the_ Fortuna_ plowed ungracefully through the breaks, each lurch a sickening reminder of that night, and the storm that swept away everything but his dignity.

That had gotten lost somewhere between his resignation and a bottle.

"Ah, Master Norrington?"

He turned to the nervous midshipman who suddenly found the deck quite fascinating. Many of them had heard whispers of his name as Commodore, but this new wary respect had come from the rumor that he had successfully delivered the still-beating heart of Davy Jones himself to a certain squalid little man of the East India Trading Company.

It helped that the rumor was actually true.

"Yes, what is it?"

The young man cleared his constricted throat.

"The Captain, sir. He, ah- would like to go over the bearings with you. -At your convenience, of course."

He nodded once, and the midshipman quickly left, though his manner suggested the wont to linger. The crew maintained a respectful distance, but they all stared when they thought he wasn't looking; their curiosity a near-tangible thing.

He decided to wait a bit. He wasn't quite sure where to go, after all.

Tortuga was the most likely stop, but he was loathe to visit so soon after his embarrassing short as the town laughing stock. The only reason he hadn't been killed by any of the numerous pirates who made berth in the treacherous cove was the fact that no one had believed him when he gave them his name.

They laughed instead. -Uproariously.

They thought him posturing, even with the obvious finery he wore and the mannerly way in which he carried himself-which quickly crumbled under the weight of his grief. Once word spread, all manner of lowlife scum bowed mockingly to him in passing and every harlot slurred his former title as they curtsied low-a parody of the respect he'd once had.

Working on the Pearl hadn't come close.

-Even with Sparrow's constant presence and ludicrous orders.

Currently he was on the hunt for the Governor's daughter, and perhaps if luck held, the wayward Mr. Turner. His expression was thunderous as he remembered the pointless fight he'd engaged in at Sparrow's goading, and he vowed that if he were to find either of them alive (Sparrow excluded, of course), his abject apology would be the first thing they heard. Even at such a low point in his life, such behavior from him was both appalling and inexcusable. It reflected poorly on not only himself, but the brave men who had perished under his command and that stung. Badly.

He knew quite a few other pirate haunts, but he also knew William would have picked Tortuga to begin his own search, so logically it should be his first stop as well. He was well-practiced at swallowing the large, obtrusive lump that was his pride, and he would comb the seven seas to find the two ill-fated lovers no matter what degradation awaited him.

It was the only way to free the Governor from Beckett's sway, and he owed the citizens of Port Royal for the loss of their men and protection-not to mention he had made it his personal mission to take down that sniveling twit as swiftly and permanently as possible. Something about the man rankled him; waving warrants and letters of marque before him like a socialite's fan. He only wished the Governor had gotten word to him sooner. To think that he had imprisoned a lady of Ms. Swann's standing on the day of her wedding made him want to throttle the man until his poncy little neck snapped.

A particularly violent lurch roused him from his murderous thoughts, and he grasped at the rail to steady himself-only to find that the sea had gone suddenly and ominously still.

That did not bode well.

The crew, down to the lowliest deckhand, stopped what they were doing to look about in wonder. The sails were slack and and the ship herself was silent as a crypt.

That was, until the ship lurched violently again.

"What is it?"

"-Have we run aground?"

"Get the Captain!"

James looked down into the roiling water and remembered some of the tales Mr. Gibbs used to tell at the mast to any that would hear. The man was an insufferable fount of nautical legends and other what-not, but he had sometimes paused in breaking up the impromptu gatherings to listen for a spell. Nearly all the stories had no merit at all, and he had told the man many times not to bother the other sailors on the night-watch with his ridiculous sordid tales, but every once and a while there would come a legend that he'd not heard before and he would listen; deciding whether or not it was worth letting the man out of punishment for dereliction of duty yet again.

He particularly listened to the ones about sea monsters. Not that he believed them, but the sea hid many secrets, and if the bible could have dragons and demons, the sea could have its share of them as well.

The panicked motion on deck seemed to break whatever spell had been cast upon the sea, for it surged up in a great frothy swell; breaking hard against the _Fortuna'_s hull.

The cause of the surge was apparent in a great, fleshy tentacle that rose high above the mast.

"-WHAT IS THAT?"

"God in heaven..."

"-Captain! CAPTAIN!"

Men were bellowing and pointing; creating more chaos on deck. He knew that if the panic continued, they were all going to die, and as he hadn't finished what he set out to do, he found that option unacceptable.

Using the full-weight of his military voice, he brought the floundering ship to order.

"Sailors to your stations! NOW!"

There was only a slight pause as the men looked to each other for council, then there was a more orderly rush as his orders were obeyed. Meanwhile, the white pillar of flesh wasted no time in descending onto the quarterdeck with all the speed afforded by it's massive weight. Some of the timbers cracked under the strain but the ship held, though for how long...

The captain had just stepped out of his cabin, when another tentacle erupted from the depths and seized him with such speed and accuracy that the creature could be no mere sea beast. Another crewman disappeared as quickly, a mere twist of the coils, as he ran to his captain's aid.

An idea formed in his head. The attack had started when the crew began scurrying...

"STOP! DON'T MOVE!"

The men closest to him froze, but by now many of the men were in a full-fledged panic, and did not heed his warning. They were picked off with horrid ease.

He began to think frantically. Standing still would protect the men, but what of the ship? Even now, rubbery white arms were tightening around the width of the _Fortuna_, and it would be only a matter of time before her back would break from the strain. They were only lightly armed, and he doubted the cannons could do much but backfire as most of the hatches were covered by the creature's bulk.

"Fire on deck! FIRE-"

One of the panicking crewmembers stopped to put out the blaze, and was spared the monster's wrath as it overshot its mark. A lamp had overturned and the oil ignited, spreading like flaming water over the deck.

Flaming... Water..

An idea came to him; perfect in its simplicity. He looked around. There were still enough crewmembers ignoring his order to stand that he might actually be able to pull it off-if he took advantage of their restlessness.

"You, and you! Go below and fetch all the lamp oil you can carry. Be quick or it'll be the maw for you! You there! Take ahold of that lamp and stand STILL, damn you!"

The _Fortuna_ let out a groan, signaling their time was short.

He ordered the remaining men to pour the oil into the water on both sides of the boat while the other two fetched more. They lost some of the men to the creature meanwhile, but the men who were quick remained. Finally, when their stores were exhausted he told the man with the lamp to throw it down against the closest side of the ship, so the fire would take hold.

"As close to the water as you can manage!"

Naturally the man balked at this and, in his indecision, was swept up by a monstrous arm and pulled down to the depths.

Quickly running out of men and the ship shaking under his feet, Norrington dove for the fallen lantern and threw it with enough force against the hull that the entire side lit up-as did the oil upon the waves.

With a shudder, the arms retreated with the same alarming speed, fleeing the heat of the flames. He barked for the men to put out the flames on the side of ship lest the fire spread. The survivors cheered as they doused the flames, and for a moment James Norrington felt a small burst of redemption.

Then the world tilted and the _Fortuna_ was becoming smaller and smaller. His stomach fluttered and he could feel the strange, circular protrusions pressed against him as he was held high above the water, away from the ship.

The fetid scent of the sea was nearly overwhelming.

From his position, which was higher than the crow's nest, he could see a massive white shape still lurking below the boat-and another fast approaching from behind. He tried to bellow to the crew, but the loss of his presence had snapped the fragile semblance of order he had established and they frantically ran about, shouting or praying. Some had stopped what they were doing altogether and simply waited for what was to come.

It was over. All he could do now was wait for the inevitable.

The white coil holding him aloft descended suddenly, making his stomach crawl into his throat. A rumbling boom proceeded the ominous second shape's burst from the ocean, sending spray high enough to wet his brow.

It was a nightmarish monstrosity in the unmistakable shape of a boat.

Still dangling, he watched in horror as the vessel came along side the _Fortuna_ and fired salvo after salvo until the ship was no more. The sounds of cannon fire and men's screams lingered even after the last timbers of the doomed ship slipped beneath the waves-intensified even, until he realized it was himself who was the source of the echo.

The fleshy arm lowered further and began to move towards the hellish ship, it's interest in the _Fortuna_ no more, not unlike the ship herself. There were... creatures vaguely in the shape of men serving as the crew, and he had a flash of realization as his mind's eye recalled similar forms chasing him through a tropical wood, after a chest...

Before him was _The Flying Dutchman_, below him must be the Kraken, and somewhere on that legendary ship was a Captain who undoubtedly wanted a word with him.

Cold fear began to trickle down his spine, into his belly, until he remembered the crew who had just been senselessly slaughtered, and the insufferable bastard who held the keys to all their fates-dangling them just out of reach. Unbridled anger burned through him, and he attempted to come up fighting when he was dropped unmercifully onto the deck and into the arms of the unholy crew.

He was subdued rather quickly by a prickly fist to his gut[1].

Someone wove wet, misshapen fingers through his hair; forcing his head back. Another kicked the back of his knees, and he hit the deck hard as he folded. A familiar conch scuttled over to him, followed by a still-headless body; the spindly crab's legs retreating, and the grotesque head reappearing, obscene grin in place.

"Captain, this is the one..."

The crowd that surrounded him parted in front, and what could only be Davy Jones himself strode forward, a pipe between his lips. He too was part sea-creature, his great beard made of tentacles, as was the hand that held the pipe. The other hand was a menacing crab claw, which found it's way around his throat in the blink of an eye.

"Aye now. What have we here?"

He grimaced and lunged at the bent figure, heedless of the certain death about his neck. The claw tightened a fraction in warning. He felt nothing; his anger still a bright ball of fury within him.

"Was that necessary? Was it really necessary?"

His voice was hoarse from yelling. The crew holding him gurgled with laughter. The captain merely bent so that his face was inches from his own.

He blew out a stream of smoke.

"Was what necessary, boy?"

He had no choice but to breathe the smoke, which surprisingly did not smell foul as he suspected it would. It was rich and fragrant, and somehow faintly familiar. His abused middle which had, until now, been stinging from the blow, started to feel numb.

Still too riled to pay his body any mind, he bit out his reply between clenched teeth.

"The crew. The _ship_. If you had business with me _sir_, your pet would have sufficed-or dare I say, even a white flag..."

The crew roared at this, and the claw around his throat quaked as the captain shared a chuckle with them before silencing them with a Look. Cold blue eyes assessed him as he blew another puff of smoke into his face. Norrington endured it and stared right back, breathing heavy.

"Aye. Business with you I have, James Norrington. Best keep a mind on your own self, and not worry over the little lady and her crew, hm?"

He looked off to a point behind Norrington's shoulder, and he twisted his head as far as he could to follow. He started when he saw more than a handful of the _Fortuna_'s crew standing together; watching the proceedings with blank faces. He looked back to the man before him and received another face full of smoke.

"Though it seems that it might be _ye_ who has business with _me_, Master Norrington. Perhaps you can explain what business had ye with the chest, or was that Sparrow's doing as well?"

He sneered half-heartedly at the mention of that scallywag. Truly, it was all that damnedable pirate's doing, but his own involvement in the caper was not. He blinked at the Captain, the beginnings of a smile twitching at his lips.

He suddenly knew exactly how he was going to get Beckett.

-Oh, how he was going to _get him_.

"It was Sparrow who led the chase for the chest, though for what reason still remains to be seen, but there were other parties involved in its theft. Those parties are reason I took any part of the hunt at all. They are also the current holders of the contents of the chest."

The blue gaze was narrowed in speculation.

"Are they now? And what be the name of this 'party', hmm?"

The sentence preceded another puff of smoke. When he tried to jerk his head away this time, he realized the crew was no longer holding him taunt-he was all but slumped against them. A tiny seed of panic rooted in his brain, and he tried to make his muscles struggle under their grip.

He squirmed uselessly.

Fingers tightened in his hair and the Captain was blowing smoke in his face again.

"The name, boy. Give me the name of the one that holds my heart..."

He blinked rapidly. The sweet smoke was doing... something to him. Relaxing him? His legs were starting to feel numb, along with his stomach. He needed a bargaining chip-but for what? His head felt clouded and too warm, all of a sudden.

"I'll tell you the name-I'll even tell you where you may find him; but I have two concessions to make which.." He flinched when his hair was wrenched cruelly, "-Which are easily granted. Really."

He ignored the warring grumbling of the crew, and the violent jostling meant to intimidate. The claw around his neck flexed ominously and he waited with a detached sort of trepidation as the Master of the Seven Seas decided his fate. After an agonizing moment, the claw removed itself completely from his person and the Captain once again regarded him with a speculative glare.

"Alright. Name yer terms, boy."

Norrington, despite the dank moisture all around, licked his suddenly dry lips. Thankful that the Captain and his cloud of debilitating smoke were at a safer distance, he quickly gathered his wits.

"There are two young people mixed up in this that I must vouch safety for. I would have your word that they will not come to harm by you or any of your ilk."

He felt it necessary to add: "-Neither of them have the heart."

The Captain stroked his pipe thoughtfully.

"Mmm. What be their names?"

He nearly breathed a sigh of relief.

"Miss Elizabeth Swann and her fiancé, Mister William Turner. -The younger."

He didn't know why he added the last bit. According to all accounts, William Turner the elder, now know to him as the pirate Bootstrap Bill Turner was deceased, in one way or another. Temporarily distracted by his thoughts, he was not prepared for the reaction that particular name invoked.

With nary a warning, he was yanked by the neck to a standing position, where the terrifying visage of Davy Jones once again found itself scant inches from his face.

"The Turners will receive no protection, nor special treatment from me, Master Norrington. What is he to thee that ye would ask for his safety?"

The numbness of his legs caused his equilibrium to be at the sole discretion of the man whose claw bore him upright. Still, he managed not to stumble or quail as he met the other man's eye.

"What he, and his fiancé, are to me is my responsibility. I can only gather that Young Mister Turner has done something rash for such wrath to be placed upon the utterance of his name, but whatever he has done or will do has been orchestrated by the same man who now holds power over you in the manner of your heart. He does what he does for the sake of his betrothed, and their safety remains my first concession, sir."

Hard eyes that belied their age bored through him, and seemingly into the beyond. He would not bend on this matter. He could not. To waste such an opportunity was madness, and what did he have to lose, really? His career, his dignity, his life? Currently all were sadly wanting, and if somehow his life could pay his debt to the Governor for his continued if misplaced support, then so be it. He would pay it, gladly.

Smoke filled his nose and throat, bringing him back into focus. The eyes that had stripped him bare had apparently found what they were looking for, and the man eased back; not breaking eye contact, but no longer flaying him with his stare.

"Done. They'll suffer not from me or mine, on my word."

He blinked. Had he just wrung a concession from Davy Jones? All around him the crew was deadly silent, no doubt amazed at their captain's generosity. He slumped a little in the fell grip and was dropped back into the stunned hands of the crew; the relief of tension almost as draining as the tension itself.

Lord, he was tired.

"You mentioned two concessions, boy. I would have the other. Now."

He nodded absently. He had almost forgotten about the second. Almost.

"The other is simple: I would like the person currently in possession of your heart to suffer in the most horrible way you can manage. Surely that is a boon easily granted."

The being before him chuffed around the stem of his pipe and a few of the crew members echoed him uncertainly. He tapped an ember off against his monstrous claw and approached him again, grabbing his chin and attention both.

"So it tis. An eternity before the mast awaits he, Master Norrington. Now, who is this man that is to suffer so for the theft of what is rightfully _mine_."

The words left his lips with the ease of the righteous.

"He is Lord Cutler Beckett of the East India Trading Company, and currently he resides in Fort Charles in Port Royal, Jamaica."

With a grim smile, the Captain turned to the stunned crew and bellowed his orders, causing those around him to jump nearly a meter in the air.

The shouting continued and the men behind him abruptly dispersed to fulfill the orders. Without support, he fell hard onto the deck, his legs still numb and his head swimming. He waited for a blow, or for the heave that would take him overboard and into the belly of the great beast.

None came.

What did come was a sharp nod from the formidable man at the helm, and a single word spoken to a waiting crewman he could only guess was the bo'sun.

"Brig."

He was pawed by clammy, grasping digits until he was able to stand, then was summarily drug down into the dank bowels of the ship. The trip was glossed over by his strange numbing affliction and general befuddlement. Thus, when he was thrown into the wet cell none too carefully, his only protest was a breathless grunt; his body tired from strain and his mind spinning like the dripping ceiling.

He didn't register when the spinning became darkness, and he fell into it almost immediately. 

* * *

He tensed as he heard the shuffling squelch of steps approaching his cell. So far, the Captain had been content to simply let him rot down here, his mind undoubtedly on other things. He knew true punishment awaited him and he was content in that knowledge, but that didn't mean he was going to make it easy. His son's honest guile had lit a fire in him he hadn't known since his days aboard the _Pearl_.

He tensed ever more when he realized they were stopping at the cell before his own and there was a slumped figure between them.

He watched as they unmercifully chucked the man onto the bench and left; sparing his glowering self nary a glance. He could see, and was inordinately pleased, that the unfortunate man was not, in fact, his son, but was slightly disturbed by the fact that the man looked to be suffering from extended exposure to Davy Jones' pipe[2].

He had seen the man use that particular tool to his advantage on many a doomed sailor. The pipe's mysterious blend could calm even the most hysterical seamen, as could the man's own eyes, and not a few had sworn their fealty before the mast after receiving a liberal dose of both.

He wondered what kind of man could defy the two and end up here, and not the bottom of the sea.

He was younger than himself, this new addition, and was free of the mark of servitude; his face and hands just that-neither marred by the will of the sea. He was dressed in what looked to be Marine reds, but the cut of the coat looked wrong. He couldn't tell for sure from the darkness of the brig and the fact that the chap was obscuring the rest in his sprawl.

Short brown hair, and a rather severe looking face. Even in stupor.

Military. He'd almost bet his life on it.

This man was important. Undoubtedly he was connected with the Chest somehow. The fact that he was a prisoner at all was proof enough of that. What he didn't understand was why, if he had divulged any pertinent information, he was still alive; or if he had the fortitude to hold his tongue in the face of such terror, why he bore no mark of the lash-or at least, none he could readily see.

It was entirely unorthodox. And unsettling.

He watched as the man blinked lethargically before his eyes finally shut and remained so. He knew the walls had both eyes and ears, but he saw no harm in posing a question to his fellow inmate once he regained consciousness. Settling back into his corner, Bill Turner decided to do just that; in hopes that the man might know what had become of his son and the accursed chest he so stubbornly sought. 

* * *

It stank most foul.

Not the heart, strangely enough, even with it's halo of hungry flies. Nor the bag that held it, being fine oilskin and thoroughly washed by the sea. Truly it's bearer had been more pungent, though by no fault of his own of course. Pirates were not known for their clean living, hygienically or otherwise. He was still quite surprised to find that the (astonishingly young) Commodore indeed cleaned up quite nicely-though his eyes never quite lost their dirty look.

It didn't matter. Norrington didn't have to like him, he simply had to heed him. Easy enough for a Navy man, command or no.

Oh, he knew the man's real loyalties lay with the foppish Governor, and he would let the man continue to think he was really serving more honorable ends-at least for as long as it was profitable. He did seem to have a burning desire to redeem himself, and if he should find Turner and the Governor's precious daughter along with the compass, well-fine.

He had no doubt the man could do it.

The proof was in the putting, as the saying goes.

No, the rank, unpleasant odor came not from the living organ before him, nor it's dubious delivery boy, but from the situation which essentially left him holding a rather sought after piece of meat but no means with which to ransom it. He knew to set foot upon a ship was to court death, and he refused to trust anyone else with the keeping or handling of it; even Mercer, whom he explicitly trusted to kill for him, but sadly not to die for him. -He was too shrewd for that.

He almost envied the Commodore. His men had followed him into a hurricane without fail.

Mercer wouldn't even follow him into a poorly-lit room without coin.

As if summoned by his ire, the man appeared in the doorway; balancing a knife between his gloved fingers as he was usually wont to do. His voice was properly respectful, but his slouch was insolent. If he didn't know it was a clever ruse to make him look less capable than he actually was, he probably would have fired the man ages ago.

"The Governor requests an audience with you."

He sighed.

"Again? Will the man ever learn that he has _nothing_ to bargain with?"

Mercer smirked cheekily.

"Shall I tell him you are indisposed?"

Beckett thought for a minute. The Governor usually called upon him at least once a week to discuss the inanities of Port Royal Governorship and the abysmal political climate of England. He knew the only reason he was still alive was his connections to the British Crown, and yet he _still_ attempted to use his station as leverage. Just as soon as he found some marginally intelligent but utterly expendable wastrel to negotiate his terms to the scourge of the Seven Seas he could-

...Wait a minute.

"Sir?"

He waved off the concern at his pause. It wasn't sincere in the slightest.

"No. Send him in. -Or rather, tell him that I am extremely busy, but I will speak with him as long as he comes here. I am correct in assuming that he expects me to drop everything and hasten to his manor, yes?"

"Indeed." A short bow. "I will relay your message, sir."

An amused noise.

"With your usual 'flair', no doubt. -Try not to over-do it. It'll be even more of a chore if he can't piece a sentence together."

The older man chuckled darkly, tossing the knife carelessly and snatching it from the air with no small skill. He touched a finger to his brow in farewell and left, the grind of his boots a mere whisper against the worn stones of the fort.

Lord Cutler Beckett chuffed softly, imagining the already blustered Governor quaking with fear. Finally, he would get his money's worth out of the man-and perhaps a little payback on behalf of his audacious tart of a daughter. Pulling a pistol on him while Mercer was unfortunately otherwise occupied and brazenly stealing the prize.

So much for a 'lady of virtue'. She obviously learned that trick at Sparrow's knee.

Yes, young Mister Turner would have his hands full with that one, granted they survived the ordeal. He did not envy Sparrow should the three of them meet, head on. He highly suspected that they might just be the tiniest bit on the raw and less likely to capitulate to any of the pathetic theatrics the man tried to pass off as intellect. Nay, he could easily see the virtuous Miss Swann picking the compass (and the papers, if he so had them) off his person from behind a pistol-or sword in Mister Turner's case, purely on principal.

Then again, if anyone could run a ship of fools, it was _Captain _Jack Sparrow. He had swindled them all before, hadn't he? Even the severely up-right former Commodore of the Jamaican Fleet. He knew from his own experiences with the man, that was no mere feat.

Ah well, it didn't matter in the end. He had what he needed; the compass was simply the icing. Sending Norrington on that particular errand was just a way to get the man out of his hair and away from the Governor. Weatherby Swann was certainly no threat on his own, ties to the crown or not, but having Norrington in Port Royal practically assured the man protection. He was a long-time sponsor of the Commodore, after all.

Spinning the quill between his fingers, Lord Beckett smiled in a very satisfied manner.

He could only wait for the lot of them to meet sticky ends at the hands of his new employee, Davy Jones.

|End|

foot note[1]: That guy that was mostly pufferfish? Poisoned his ass. Yes.

foot note[2]: I'm sorry, but did anyone else notice that Davy Jones was puffing in the faces of those unfortunate sailors in that scene where Will meets him for the first time? He seemed to have somewhat of a calming (or at least, morbidly persuasive) effect on them.

So yeah, the hash in the pipe is some seriously heavy stuff. -Hooray for artistic license!


End file.
